Jeff Briggs's Love Story

“Six months,” said Jeff, with a sigh.

“It’s changed for the worse since your house was shut up. There’s a long stretch of unsettled country infested by bad characters.”

Jeff sat silent. “Briggs.”

“Sir?”

“The last man but one who preceded you was shot by road agents.” [1 - Highway robbers.]

“Yes, sir.”

“We lost sixty thousand dollars up there.”

“Yes?”

“Your father was Briggs of Tuolumne?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeff’s head dropped, but, glancing shyly up, he saw a pleasant smile on his questioner’s face. He was still writing rapidly, but was apparently enjoying at the same time some pleasant recollection.

“Your father and I lost nearly sixty thousand dollars together one night, ten years ago, when we were both younger.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jeff dubiously.

“But it was OUR OWN MONEY, Jeff.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s your appointment,” he said briefly, throwing away his pen, folding what he had written, and handing it to Jeff. It was the first time that he had looked at him since he entered. He now held out his hand, grasped Jeff’s, and said, “Good-night!”

VI

It was late the next evening when Jeff drew up at the coach office at Robinson’s Ferry, where he was to await the coming of the Summit coach. His mind, lifted only temporarily out of its denumbed condition during his interview with the manager, again fell back into its dull abstraction. Fully embarked upon his dangerous journey, accepting all the meaning of the trust imposed upon him, he was yet vaguely conscious that he did not realize its full importance. He had neither the dread nor the stimulation of coming danger. He had faced death before in the boyish confidence of animal spirits; his pulse now was scarcely stirred with anticipation. Once or twice before, in the extravagance of his passion, he had imagined himself rescuing Miss Mayfield from danger, or even dying for her. During his journey his mind had dwelt fully and minutely on every detail of their brief acquaintance; she was continually before him, the tones of her voice were in his ears, the suggestive touch of her fingers, the thrill that his lips had felt when he kissed them—all were with him now, but only as a memory. In his coming fate, in his future life, he saw her not. He believed it was a premonition of coming death.

He made a few preparations. The company’s agent had told him that the treasure, letters, and dispatches, which had accumulated to a considerable amount, would be handed to him on the box; and that the arms and ammunition were in the boot. A less courageous and determined man might have been affected by the cold, practical brutality of certain advice and instructions offered him by the agent, but Jeff recognized this compliment to his determination, even before the agent concluded his speech by saying, “But I reckon they knew what they were about in the lower office when they sent YOU up. I dare say you kin give me p’ints, ef ye cared to, for all ye’re soft spoken. There are only four passengers booked through; we hev to be a little partikler, suspectin’ spies! Two of the four ye kin depend upon to get the top o’ their d–d heads blowed off the first fire,” he added grimly.

At ten o’clock the Summit coach flashed, rattled, glittered, and snapped, like a disorganized firework, up to the door of the company’s office. A familiar figure, but more than usually truculent and aggressive, slowly descended with violent oaths from the box. Without seeing Jeff, it strode into the office.

“Now then,” said Yuba Bill, addressing the agent, “whar’s that God-forsaken fool that Wells, Fargo & Co. hev sent up yar to take charge o’ their treasure? Because I’d like to introduce him to the champion idgit of Calaveras County, that’s been selected to go to h-ll with him; and that’s me, Yuba Bill! P’int him out. Don’t keep me waitin’!”

The agent grinned and pointed to Jeff.

Both men recoiled in astonishment. Yuba Bill was the first to recover his speech.

“It’s a lie!” he roared; “or somebody has been putting up a job on ye, Jeff! Because I’ve been twenty years in the service, and am such a nat’ral born mule that when the company strokes my back and sez, ‘You’re the on’y mule we kin trust, Bill,’ I starts up and goes out as a blasted wooden figgerhead for road agents to lay fur and practice on, it don’t follow that YOU’VE any call to go.”

“It was my own seeking, Bill,” said Jeff, with one of his old, sweet, boyish smiles. “I didn’t know YOU were to drive. But you’re not going back on me now, Bill, are you? you’re not going to send me off with another volunteer?”

“That be d–d!” growled Bill. Nevertheless, for ten minutes he reviled the Pioneer Coach Company with picturesque imprecation, tendered his resignation repeatedly to the agent, and at the end of that time, as everybody expected, mounted the box, and with a final malediction, involving the whole settlement, was off.

On the road, Jeff, in a few hurried sentences, told his story. Bill scarcely seemed to listen. “Look yar, Jeff,” he said suddenly.

“Yes, Bill.”

“If the worst happens, and ye go under, you’ll tell your father, IF I DON’T HAPPEN TO SEE HIM FIRST, it wasn’t no job of mine, and I did my best to get ye out of it.”

“Yes,” said Jeff, in a faint voice.

“It mayn’t be so bad,” said Bill, softening; “they KNOW, d—n ‘em, we’ve got a pile aboard, ez well as if they seed that agent gin it ye, but they also know we’ve pre-pared!”

“I wasn’t thinking of that, Bill; I was thinking of my father.” And he told Bill of the gambling episode at Sacramento.

“D’ye mean to say ye left them hounds with a thousand dollars of yer hard-earned—”

“Gambling gains, Bill,” interrupted Jeff quietly.

“Exactly! Well!” Bill subsided into an incoherent growl. After a few moments’ pause, he began again. “Yer ready as ye used to be with a six-shooter, Jeff, time’s when ye was a boy, and I uster chuck half-dollars in the air fur ye to make warts on?”

“I reckon,” said Jeff, with a faint smile.

“Thar’s two p’ints on the road to be looked to: the woods beyond the blacksmith’s shop that uster be; the fringe of alder and buckeye by the crossing below your house—p’ints where they kin fetch you without a show. Thar’s two ways o’ meetin’ them thar. One way ez to pull up and trust to luck and brag. The other way is to whip up and yell, and send the whole six kiting by like h-ll!”

“Yes,” said Jeff.

“The only drawback to that plan is this: the road lies along the edge of a precipice, straight down a thousand feet into the river. Ef these devils get a shot into any one o’ the six and it DROPS, the coach turns sharp off, and down we go, the whole kerboodle of us, plump into the Stanislaus!”

“AND THEY DON’T GET THE MONEY,” said Jeff quietly.

“Well, no!” replied Yuba Bill, staring at Jeff, whose face was set as a flint against the darkness. “I should reckon not.” He then drew a long breath, glanced at Jeff again, and said between his teeth, “Well, I’m d–d!”

At the next station they changed horses, Bill personally supervising, especially as regarded the welfare and proper condition of Blue Grass, who here was brought out as a leader. Formerly there was no change of horses at this station, and this novelty excited Jeff’s remark. “These yar chaps say thar’s no station at the Summit now,” growled Bill, in explanation; “the hotel is closed, and it’s all private property, bought by some chap from ‘Frisco. Thar ought to be a law agin such doin’s!”

This suggested obliteration of the last traces of Miss Mayfield seemed to Jeff as only a corroboration of his premonition. He should never hear from her again! Yet to have stood under the roof that last sheltered her; to, perchance, have met some one who had seen her later—this was a fancy that had haunted him on his journey. It was all over now. Perhaps it was for the best.

With the sinking behind of the lights of the station, the occupants of the coach knew that the dangerous part of the journey had begun. The two guards in the coach had already made obtrusive and warlike preparations, to the ill-concealed disgust of Yuba Bill. “I’d hev been willin’ to get through this yar job without the burnin’ of powder, but ef any of them devils ez is waitin’ for us would be content with a shot at them fancy policemen inside, I’d pull up and give ‘em a show!” Having relieved his mind, Bill said no more, and the two men relapsed into silence. The moon shone brightly and peacefully, a fact pointed out by Bill as unfavorably deepening the shadows of the woods, and bringing the coach and the road into greater relief.

An hour passed. What were Yuba Bill’s thoughts are not a part of this history; that they were turbulent and aggressive might be inferred from the occasional growls and interjected oaths that broke from his lips. But Jeff, strange anomaly, due perhaps to youth and moonlight, was wrapped in a sensuous dream of Miss Mayfield, of the scent of her dark hair as he had drawn her to his side, of the outlines of her sweet form, that had for a moment lightly touched his own—of anything, I fear, but the death he believed he was hastening to. But—

“Jeff,” said Bill, in an unmistakable tone.

“Yes,” said Jeff.

“THAT AR CLUMP O’ BUCKEYE ON THE RIDGE! Ready there!” (Leaning over the box, to the guards within.) A responsive rustle in the coach, which now bounded forward as if instinct with life and intelligence.

“Jeff,” said Bill, in an odd, altered voice, “take the lines a minit.” Jeff took them. Bill stooped towards the boot. A peaceful moment! A peaceful outlook from the coach; the white moonlit road stretching to the ridge, no noise but the steady gallop of the horses!

Then a yellow flash, breaking from the darkness of the buckeye; a crack like the snap of a whip; Yuba Bill steadying himself for a moment, and then dropping at Jeff’s feet!

“They got me, Jeff! But—I DRAWED THEIR FIRE! Don’t drop the lines! Don’t speak! For—they—think I’m YOU and you ME!”